


locket around your throat

by Anonymous



Category: A3! (Video Game)
Genre: Body Horror, Emetophobia, Hanahaki Disease, Hospitalization, M/M, Unrequited Love, a3 big bang 2021, probably inaccurate descriptions of hospitals and medical procedures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-16 13:48:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29577057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Being easily fatigued, unathletic, is hardly new. If he didn’t have a yellow rose clutched in one hand, he could pretend this shortness of breath is just from his usual lack of fitness, from emotion, from kisses. Except that he exercised a lot for Lancelot, and there’s a yellow rose clutched in his hand.
Relationships: Chigasaki Itaru/Tonooka
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6
Collections: A3! Big Bang 2021, Anonymous





	locket around your throat

**Author's Note:**

> please check the tags & archive warnings for information about this fic to stay safe! also, although this fic pertains specifically to the hanahaki disease trope, some of the experiences described in the fic might be relatable to people experiencing trauma, depression, or physical illness. if you find that sort of topic to be difficult to read, please be careful!
> 
> currently, this fic contains spoilers past where the a3 eng server is, so please be wary of that - when eng server runs this event, i'll remove this warning. for jp server players or folks who've read past where eng server is, this fic is set directly after spring's 5th play, knights of round iv the stage!
> 
> the title is a lyric from "nobody puts baby in a corner" by fall out boy. 
> 
> for this big bang i was paired with an incredible artist who made the beautiful illustration embedded at the start of this fic - please check it out separately [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/30013107) as well! please also check out another wonderful illustration made for this fic, [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/30002298)!

“Speaking of which, when Kniroun X comes out, lend us a hand with promo as _taruchi_ this time.”

“To say that now...” Itaru grouses. “You put on a good front, don't you.”

“Same to you.” Tonooka tilts his chin up, a faint smile on his face. 

There’s nothing else to say to each other. Itaru opens his mouth and then shuts it, unsure what he wants. He’s still dressed in his Lancelot costume, clothes that made him feel invincible onstage but now feel too tight, sweat-stuck to his skin. He watches Tonooka check his phone, disengaging politely from the wreckage of his conversation with Itaru. His thumb flicks over the screen, scrolling past a half dozen email notifications. The same as Itaru’s phone when work is busy, but _his_ emails don’t mention Kniroun at all. 

Jealousy builds in his gut, an emotion more corrosive than any he’s allowed himself to feel during this entire affair. He can’t avoid thoughts of Tonooka when the guy is standing right in front of him, dressed in a suit that looks like it was cut just for him, his hair longer than it was in high school, perfectly framing his face. His grip on his phone reminds Itaru of the way they held consoles in high school, fingers loose with confidence, as if pressing exactly the right buttons was second nature. For all the years Itaru spent editing Tonooka out of his memories, he remembers these small things so clearly. 

Traitorously, his brain wonders if Tonooka still tastes the same. Not that they had kissed very many times, back in high school, but Itaru was never able to forget that memory.

“Hey,” he says, his voice sounding foreign in his own ears. Tonooka doesn’t quite look up from where he’s texting, and Itaru wants to knock the phone from his hands, yell in Tonooka’s face, _Acknowledge me, asshole!_ , but his hands go up instead, reaching for the collar of Tonooka’s pressed shirt. 

“Chiga,” Tonooka starts, and at arm’s length, he’s close enough for Itaru to see the hesitation on his face. That’s a win for Itaru, or it might be. Tonooka blinks, his eyelashes just as long as they were when he was a teenager. There are stress lines under his eyes now. Itaru has the same ones. 

“Kiss me,” Itaru says. 

He expects Tonooka to laugh at him, or call him desperate. He also expects Tonooka to _do_ it. Tonooka must not have changed that much, because his mouth twists in a smirk, smug at Itaru’s expense, and then he leans in and kisses Itaru firmly. 

He doesn’t taste the same, but Itaru doesn’t stop. 

Tonooka’s lips are chapped, but not so dry that kissing him is unpleasant. He tastes faintly like something Itaru belatedly identifies as an energy drink. He isn’t a good kisser, isn’t sure what to do with his lips or tongue, but Itaru isn’t a good kisser either. Tonooka tastes different than he did in high school, carries himself differently, lives in a whole different world, but so much is the same. 

Itaru breaks away, panting, at the feeling of fingers on the front of his tunic. He swats at Tonooka’s wrist. “Don’t mess up my costume.”

“I won’t, but only because my next bonus rides on this collab.” Tonooka grins. He’s practically unaffected, whereas Itaru is struggling to catch his breath. Of course the jock normie wouldn’t be out of breath. “Once again I’m grateful to you, Chiga.” 

“Shut up.” 

Now that they’re not kissing, they’re back in that brittle silence, the one Itaru interrupted before with his demand. His chest feels too tight to breathe, and he can tell Tonooka is seconds away from getting his phone out again. Itaru doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know what he wants to happen. 

“That’s it?” Tonooka asks. “You just wanted to kiss me, and that’s all?” 

Itaru can’t find enough air in his lungs to answer. He nods, a quick jerk of his head. 

Tonooka’s lip curls. “Great. Well, if you think of anything else, you can contact me on Twitter at @EndLinks, or for a faster response, @KnightsofRound.”

Itaru wants to strangle him, but all he gives is another nod. 

Tonooka opens his mouth like he’s going to say something else, something that’ll hurt. Then he shuts it with a snap, turns on his heel, and heads off down the street. 

Itaru watches Tonooka make his way down the street and turn the corner. The tightness in his chest is still there, and he realizes with ice in his veins that it’s not just from the kissing, that if he isn’t careful he’s going to start bawling right here on the sidewalk in front of the theater, and he _won’t_ do that, no matter how low he’s sunk. 

The tight feeling in his chest is growing worse, making it hard to breathe. Dazed, he turns and walks back down the path, his stage shoes scuffing on the asphalt, weaving his way back into the theater. The backstage area should be empty now, and if it isn’t, surely no one would begrudge him some post-show emotions in the wings, right? He hears some of the guys in Winter do that all the time. 

He makes it about five steps into the deserted house, not even to the first row of seats, before his throat closes up completely. He coughs, presses his hand to his chest, and then claps a hand to his mouth in horror when he feels something dislodge in his lungs. He coughs again, praying no one is around to hear him, and spits the object into his hand. 

When he lowers his hand and looks, a flower bud sits in his palm. 

Itaru stares dully at the damp petals. They’re yellow, and as he tilts his hand to get a better view of the flower, he’s able to identify it as a rose. 

He knows, instinctively, what this means. Not what yellow roses mean, but what a _flower_ means. What flowers in his lungs mean. He stands there in the wing and wonders if it’s better to have this crisis right here where anyone could walk in, or in his room in full view of Chikage. Then again, he’s pretty sure he can’t walk that far right now. He sways on his feet just trying to make it to the wing, and ends up bent over one of the audience chairs, chest heaving. 

Being easily fatigued, unathletic, is hardly new. If he didn’t have a yellow rose clutched in one hand, he could pretend this shortness of breath is just from his usual lack of fitness, from emotion, from kisses. Except that he exercised a lot for Lancelot, and there’s a yellow rose clutched in his hand. 

It’s one flower, he thinks. Just one, and there’s no way to rationalize away how it got into his chest in the first place but maybe he can delude himself that it’s just one. He’s never had symptoms before, after all. And Tonooka’s been in his thoughts for weeks thanks to the Kniroun production. Maybe it’s some sort of parting gift from the universe, a message to stay away from Tonooka in the future. Well, Itaru certainly doesn’t intend to make contact. Not to the Twitter accounts Tonooka spit at him, nor in future Kniroun planning meetings, nor in any other scenario. 

It’s just one flower. He doesn’t need to overthink it. And he definitely needs to make sure no one finds out about it. 

Although, it doesn’t hurt to do a little investigating. 

* * *

“Tsumugi,” Itaru says. 

Tsumugi turns around, his eyes lighting up. He has a way of making Itaru feel like he’s exactly who Tsumugi wanted to see; one of his many tutor skills that Itaru could only dream of mastering. “Itaru-kun. What can I do for you?” 

“No big deal,” Itaru starts, and realizes that just saying that probably makes him seem more suspicious. He extends his hand and shows Tsumugi the yellow rose in his palm. “I found this on my desk at work. Maybe someone left it there. You know flower meanings, right?”

“Yes,” Tsumugi nods, and Itaru watches as his expression turns concerned. Itaru can’t have given himself away so fast, can he? “Yellow roses...”

“What,” Itaru says, desperately trying to appear casual.

“It means ‘jealousy’,” Tsumugi explains. “You said someone left this on your desk? Maybe you have a rival at work.”

With effort, Itaru keeps his face blank, calling upon years of self-training. “Huh. I guess I can think of a few people who might be jealous of what I’ve accomplished this month. Or maybe I’ve caught the eye of someone’s girlfriend.” Better to sound conceited than anything near how he actually feels. “I’ll be careful, though.”

“Please do.” Tsumugi leans closer, getting a look at Itaru’s face, and Itaru fights the urge to recoil. “Jealousy can be a corrosive, dangerous thing. If someone’s left you a flower, they could just as easily leave something else—something worse.” 

“Don’t I know it,” Itaru mutters. 

Tsumugi’s expression clouds with uncertainty, and Itaru claps him on the shoulder. “Thanks,” he says lightly, and ducks out of the conversation before Tsumugi can pry any further.

* * *

That night he lies in bed, the yellow rose clutched in his hand. The petals are starting to deteriorate from being clutched between sweaty fingers all evening, but Itaru places it next to his pillow so that in the morning, he’ll know if all of this was a dream. As he closes his eyes (all his stamina and LP grinded down, of course), he remembers Tsumugi’s words, remembers the ache he felt earlier thinking about Tonooka’s life. If that rose means jealousy, then the emotion that’s growing in Itaru’s chest is jealousy, not love. He might have been in love with Tonooka in the past; that doesn’t hurt to admit now, because it’s in past tense. Now, he just wishes he had Tonooka’s job, but Tonooka doesn’t know happiness like what Itaru’s found with theatre. So really, it’s Itaru’s win, no matter how he spins it. 

Now that Tonooka has no reason to speak to MANKAI Company, Itaru has no reason to think of him. He’s barely thought of him since high school, really, unless you count college, where he spent a _lot_ of nights— Well. No need to think about that. He’s a different person now. Not lonely, not alone. He has people he cares about now, who like him for who he is, who won’t betray him for daring to reach out. He doesn’t need Tonooka. And he kissed him, one last time, for closure, like wrapping that part of his life up in a box with a nice bow. 

Or maybe a better comparison would be tying the ends of a garbage bag. 

* * *

When he wakes up the next morning, the rose is still by his pillow, but as Itaru breathes in, his lungs feel clear. His heart feels open, unburdened.

The problem will definitely go away. 

* * *

The problem does not go away. 

Itaru gets ten minutes into rehearsal before he has to acknowledge that something is wrong. Most of his body feels fine; his muscles and nerves work fine, or at least, about as well as usual. But Izumi suggested they do a new warm-up that involves several cardio-type exercises, even throwing Itaru a smile and a comment about how with the new fitness regimen he adopted for Lancelot, _this should be no problem, Itaru-san_! Of course, Itaru dropped that regimen as soon as the Kniroun run ended, but he had noticed a _small_ improvement in his ability to keep up with the other members of his troupe onstage. 

Now, he makes it through ten seconds of jumping jacks before he’s wheezing, unable to keep up. His arms fall limply to his sides, and he struggles to pull air through his windpipe. It’s never felt like this before—like there’s something physically blocking his airflow. Usually his chest burns at the slightest exercise, but ten seconds isn’t enough exercise to do _this_. He presses his hand to his chest and rubs, but his next breaths come out just as wheezy.

“Itaru-san,” Sakuya says, and Itaru realizes the rest of his troupe have stopped their exercises. As Sakuya approaches, the rest cluster around Itaru too, which raises an alarm for Itaru. He wouldn’t put it past Chikage to have some sort of weird illness-identifying powers, like some kind of anime character. Before any of them can touch him, he steps back, waving his hands.

“It’s fine,” he says. “I might be getting sick, so don’t get too close. I’ll do my best to finish the exercises, okay?”

“Don’t push yourself if you’re coming down with something,” Tsuzuru says. Itaru can see the gears in his brain turning, probably planning to sneak Itaru some hot water with honey later. “We can skip the exercises. Right, Director?”

“Itaru-san, you can sit these out,” Izumi confirms, also looking worried. Of course Itaru is in the troupe full of busybodies. Not that he’s minded their interventions before, though. 

Before he can think too much about it, or catch the other members’ expressions, he has to do damage control. “Just like high school,” he quips, and takes a few paces back until he’s leaning against the wall. “I’m very good at sitting on the wall during exercise.”

“Typical,” Masumi mutters, and Sakuya laughs, although when he catches Itaru’s gaze, his expression still looks worried. 

As the rest of Spring resumes their exercises and the sounds of light panting and chatter fill the space again, Itaru presses his back against the practice room wall. The looks on his troupemates’ faces are affecting him more than he wants them to. He doesn’t want to see people he cares about look like that again, especially not because of him. 

Too bad he has no idea what to do about the situation. Really, too bad his usual coping methods won’t work. He can’t avoid it; it will only progress. He can’t run away from it; it’s in his own body. And yet the idea of getting it surgically removed feels like way too much effort. If it stays like this, it’ll be manageable enough, he thinks, pressing a hand to his chest. 

Mercifully, the rest of rehearsal passes without a hitch, and Itaru heads off to lunch, glorious reheated curry that everyone except Masumi grumbles over, even Chikage as he’s fishing his personal spices out of his pocket. Five minutes later, Tsuzuru slides a steaming mug of water with honey across the table to Itaru, and escapes back to the kitchen before Itaru can tease him.

* * *

For the next week, the situation _is_ manageable. Itaru struggles with stairs at work but happily takes the elevator, whipping his phone out as soon as the doors close. He wakes up a few mornings with a petal stuck to the back of his tongue, unpleasant but easily removed. He tries not to think about the dreams these petals follow, but dreaming about Tonooka has been a constant ever since high school, not to mention Tonooka’s sudden reemergence in Itaru’s life recently. The petals don’t have a taste, and he can almost pretend they’re not there. 

It’s easy to hide from his troupemates too. He plays up the wheezing, claiming he’s getting sick; he’s always been unathletic, short of breath. He’s not actively coughing anything up right now, just a little under the weather, and no one asks questions. Not even Chikage, who Itaru takes the most care to hide petals from.

The petals themselves are different, though. On Tuesday, Itaru peels a small blue petal off his tongue, and on Wednesday, two more. Itaru expected more yellow roses—more _jealousy_ , he thinks bitterly, but they’re not yellow, not roses. And since they’re only petals, not parts of whole flowers, they’re harder to identify. He can’t bother Tsumugi with these; Tsumugi’s perceptive, attuned to the moods of the people around him, and Itaru doesn’t want Tsumugi to hear about Itaru’s recent wheezing and put two and two together. Besides, Google exists, even if all Itaru has is petals. 

He googles as many variations of “small blue flower” as he can think of until he finds something that matches: hydrangeas, which signify pride. Itaru stares at his phone screen in disbelief. He even holds one of the petals up to the screen, checking the shape of it against the flowers in the photo, but it’s the same. 

What’s there to be proud of about this? Is he proud that he’s managing this situation essentially by pretending it’s not a problem? Is he proud that Tonooka’s out of his life again, even though Itaru himself did almost nothing to cause this? He _kissed_ Tonooka, so as far as he can tell, he shouldn’t have anything to be proud of. The only thing he’s done is not die yet, and that’s not something Itaru feels like celebrating. 

On Friday, he wakes up choking around four in the morning, and grabs a tissue from the box he keeps up in his loft to spit whatever’s in his throat into, praying Chikage won’t wake up to the sound of Itaru coughing. If Chikage does stir, he’s polite and doesn’t show it. Itaru uses his phone flashlight to illuminate the object: a white flower, practically blending in with the tissue. This time, Itaru has no interest in sifting through images of white flowers, and he goes right to Tsumugi, catching him at the coffee machine before most of the company has come down for breakfast.

“Tsumugi,” he says, leaning against the counter, a mug in one hand as a prop. Tsumugi turns, his teacher’s smile on his face. “Got another flower question for you.”

“I’m all ears,” Tsumugi beams. Itaru holds out his other hand, revealing the petal dabbed dry and laying quietly in his palm, and Tsumugi picks it up and examines it, turning it over. “I think this is freesia. Where are you finding these, Itaru-kun? Still on your desk?”

There it is, the question Itaru was dreading. Luckily, he has a better excuse this time. “I figured that out. One of my coworkers keeps getting these giant bouquets, and the petals end up near my cube. We’re all curious about what they mean.”

“Does that mean you’re making friends at work?” Tsumugi’s eyes light up, as if Itaru is one of the high schoolers and not Tsumugi’s same age. 

“Well, it’s hard not to overhear the gossip,” Itaru says truthfully.

“Hmm. Well, freesia is an odd choice for a bouquet. The yellow rose, too...” He catches Itaru’s raised eyebrow, and hurries to explain. “Freesias signify childishness, immaturity. If your coworker is being sent these flowers, maybe their admirer doesn’t have a great opinion of them. Or, maybe they just don’t know about flower language.”

“Not everyone has an expert in residence,” Itaru says, saluting Tsumugi with the rim of his coffee mug. Ah, he might as well have some coffee while he’s here. He fills his coffee mug, as Tsumugi continues to hum contemplatively behind him.

“I wonder if you should tell them,” Tsumugi says, just as Itaru was going to bow out of the kitchen. He looks back over his shoulder and meets Tsumugi’s gaze. “Your coworker? You know... In case there’s some sort of underlying problem they ought to know about.”

Itaru’s sure Tsumugi’s only talking about the bouquet. Tsumugi shouldn’t even know Itaru’s feeling under the weather. But a shudder runs down his spine all the same. 

“I’ll think about it,” he says, and leaves before Tsumugi can say anything else. 

* * *

Ten days after the preview run of Knights of Round IV: The Stage closes, the End Links official Twitter announces a livestream in two days’ time. 

Instantly, the Kniroun fanbase begins speculating. Itaru sees tweets analyzing everything from the wording of the announcement tweet to the first character of each tweet End Links has made in the preceding months. One thing is for sure, according to many fans: it’s going to be news about Kniroun X.

Itaru looks at the announcement, stating that the livestream will begin at 15:00, coincidentally during one of Itaru’s weekly meetings. He remembers Izumi telling him about Tonooka’s incredulous face when she told him Itaru’s a salaryman now. Tonooka is on End Links’ promo team; it’s not a wild leap to imagine that Tonooka chose a time he bet Itaru wouldn’t be able to make. Itaru realizes with a jolt that he can’t stop the images of Tonooka flooding his brain. The thought that Tonooka has Itaru on his mind, that he maintains ill will toward Itaru, has his heart beating in his throat. Itaru’s chest clenches, and within minutes he’s excusing himself from practice to wheeze miserably over the bathroom sink.

He fully expects the yellow rose petals that he eventually coughs into his palm. His stomach burns with that same jealousy he’d felt watching Tonooka swipe through notifications. Itaru grips the sides of the sink, looking up at the mirror above. His face is red from coughing, his lips wet, and he blinks a few times to clear his vision. He doesn’t look sick, he decides, just a little flustered. Nothing his troupemates should flag as anything other than his cover story of a bit of a cold. 

There’s no need to identify the rose petals, so he rinses them down the drain as soon as his breathing stabilizes. Then he splashes some water on his cheeks and leaves the bathroom, and doesn’t check Twitter for the rest of practice.

* * *

Two days later, the Kniroun livestream goes up while Itaru is in his meeting. Itaru half considers backing out of the meeting to watch it in the bathroom with headphones, and then decides to be the mature salaryman he’s _supposed_ to be and watch it later. Thus, as soon as the meeting ends, Itaru locks himself in a bathroom stall, pops in headphones, and brings up the livestream video. He didn’t look at any of his notifications or his timeline before this, for fear of spoilers — any news about Kniroun X is big news, after all. But it’s about half an hour long, so he definitely can’t watch it all now, and he doesn’t dare put it on 2x speed and miss any details. He’ll just watch the first section, then. 

The livestream doesn’t waste any time establishing that it carries news about Kniroun X, and Itaru shifts forward on the toilet lid, excited. It opens with an office presentation room, a trailer being shown via a projector onto a screen with an empty chair on each side. The trailer is quickly overlaid into the stream window itself for easier viewing, which Itaru’s tired eyes appreciate.

First they show a shiny new logo for the game, but there’s still no subtitle, which is disappointing. Clearly this won’t have all the answers everyone’s waiting for, but the logo is a good sign; it means the game is in development. Next the trailer runs through what looks like some cutscene footage. Some of this has been shown before, but the music is new, and the footage goes past what Itaru recognizes, showing a new character galloping on horseback through terrain Itaru also doesn’t recognize. The character turns, and Itaru immediately latches onto their golden eyes and white hair. It looks like Arthur, but a much younger version of him, maybe a teenager or even younger. The camera zooms slowly on his face as the background music swells, and then as he turns away, a gust of wind blows his hair about, and darkness blooms forth from the backdrop and obscures him altogether. 

It’s clearly designed to be nothing more than a teaser to get people hyped. And of course, it’s working; Itaru’s very hyped. His head is spinning with speculation — so is X going to be a prequel? There’s been lore drops in past games, but nothing that specifically delves into the history of the Round Table or how Arthur got started. That means they might not get to see Lancelot as much in this game, unless it’s some sort of frame narrative where he’s discovering how it all began; it doesn’t rule out Gawain, though, since he joined up earlier than Lancelot. It seems fitting that for big number ten, End Links would want to go back to the beginning and clarify some of the background of the universe, especially since for all that the Kniroun bibles cover gameplay tricks and all the lore provided across the games, the history of the Round Table and of Arthur’s past is built on a few facts that have been stretched thin. On the other hand, Itaru foresees a lot of fan creators scrambling over their fanworks as certain theories get proved or disproved. 

So excited by the prospects is he, the screen changes from the trailer to the actual livestream setting with Itaru barely noticing. The voice of one of the hosts welcoming the fans watching the livestream snaps him back to reality, and he blinks at the screen to find two people sitting at the office room table. He doesn’t recognize the first person he sees, but the stream overlay labels them as one of the game developers. The other person is Tonooka.

His carefully styled brown hair and his piercing gaze hit Itaru a second before the realization of who he’s looking at does. And then there’s nothing he can do. His ears are ringing, too loud to make out what Tonooka and the developer are saying. He expects the way his chest constricts, and then it’s a good thing he’s already in the bathroom, because something is coming _up_ , and he barely makes it off the toilet and gets the lid open before he’s heaving into the toilet bowl. 

When he opens his eyes again, he doesn’t know what flowers he’s going to find. His ears are still ringing too hard to hear, and his vision blurs slowly in and out of focus. As he blinks, the color orange fades in, and that surprises him enough to rouse his senses a little faster. 

It’s flowers he’s never seen before, at least not in this context. Not the yellow roses that mean jealousy, or the little blue hydrangeas that mean pride. They’re big, pointed petals, almost shaped like little tongues. Itaru thinks about fishing one out of the toilet to take home; his stomach lurches at the thought, so that’s a no. He also doesn’t want to take a photo of it, lest his camera roll end up in the wrong hands. So he stares at the petals until he decides they’re burned into his memory, and then flushes the toilet, exits the stall, washes his hands. 

When Itaru gets home from work, Chikage is in their room folding laundry. Itaru wants to finish watching the livestream, but as he thinks about having to see Tonooka’s face again, he feels sick to his stomach. Searching on Twitter would mean seeing unfiltered spoilers out of context, which kinda stresses him out, and there’s also the risk of seeing screencaps of Tonooka’s face; Itaru doesn’t know how much of the livestream the guy’s in. It’s a dilemma, and it’s one he’s never faced before. He’s never had to avoid Kniroun content because of Tonooka before — not even in high school when things first fell apart between them. At least then, Kniroun was something Itaru could escape to, to carve out his own space within it that Tonooka couldn’t touch, even when Itaru wished—

There’s the nausea, again, insistent and dizzying. Itaru contemplates going and sitting in the bathroom, but instead he goes and gets a cup of water, and then he tucks his DS under one arm and climbs up the ladder to his bed. He might as well cope the same way he did in high school, by escaping into the same Kniroun games he loves so much, the ones so familiar they’re almost a part of him. 

The first few minutes are fine. Itaru’s playing IV, which he’s played maybe the most out of the Kniroun games. The opening music and graphics instantly relax him, and his mind fills with memories of the times he’s played this game, analyses he’s seen, lore he remembers. There’s even memories of recent restricted runs, and of showing Spring Troupe how to beat some of the bosses. He gets all the way through the opening cutscenes, hits the ground running, and then the first piece of tutorial dialogue from Gwen pops up. Itaru’s brain, unbidden, fills in a memory. 

“ _Even in your livestreams, you kept shouting about your love for Gwen when I'm the one who likes her more_.”

Itaru blinks hard, but it’s no use; his vision swims, his DS screen warping as tears fill his eyes. His chest constricts, and the next breath he takes rattles audibly in his throat. Frantic, he swallows, but there’s nothing coming up, just a squeeze in his chest as he tries to breathe in and can’t.

Carefully, he sets his DS down and looks up from his bed, scanning the room to find Chikage. His back is turned to Itaru, mercifully, and Itaru stares at the back of his green head as he struggles to get his breathing under control. His lungs feel squashed, or perhaps too full of flowers to hold any more air, and Itaru tries to clear his throat as quietly as possible, as if that might help. 

He manages to draw in what might be a full breath. It’s enough to stop his head from spinning, send oxygen to his brain. He exhales, clears his throat, inhales again. There’s a pain in his chest, like something is pressing against his ribs, and if he tries to imagine the flowers in there, what it might look like, he thinks he might pass out. He looks down at the blurry DS in his lap.

Just looking at Gwen on the screen — just thinking of a memory connected with Tonooka, just thinking about Tonooka — was enough to do this. Trying to play IV, the game that gotten him through everything before this, everything with Tonooka in high school, everything in college, the game that got him streaming and kept him sane — he can’t play it, now, because of this stupid— 

Tears prick his eyes again, and for some reason Chikage chooses that moment to turn back around and say, “Have you heard any of the Kniroun news today?”

Itaru drops his gaze as fast as he can, tilting his head forward so his bangs will cast a shadow over his eyes. It’s a technique he hasn’t employed much since high school, but he already feels so pathetic, he might as well, right? Hopefully from across the room Chikage won’t be able to tell he’s out of sorts. 

“Yeah, I’m still catching up on it, to be honest.” His voice comes out scratchy, but at least he doesn’t sound like he’s about to cry. “Had a meeting during the livestream.”

“Oh, well, I won’t spoil anything then,” Chikage says.

Itaru blinks. He should really let this conversation die right here. “You looked at spoilers?”

Chikage makes a helpless, _what-can-you-do_ motion with his hands. “Sakuya and Citron ambushed me when I came home.” 

They didn’t ambush Itaru, he thinks, ready for that pinch of feeling unwanted — but actually, it’s for the best, considering he’s really not in a state to be questioned by his very nosy troupemates. 

And, actually, if Chikage’s seen spoilers, he might be the only person alive who would give Itaru a brief summary and not include anything about Tonooka. Chikage may be a bastard, but Itaru trusts him to read the room in this regard. And if Chikage picks up on any negativity from Itaru towards Tonooka, and decides to like, ruin Tonooka’s career over it or something... Well, Itaru wouldn’t really complain. 

Before he can say anything more, though, Chikage’s at the door, waving one hand idly in Itaru’s direction. “See you at dinner, Chigasaki,” he says, and shuts the door curtly behind him.

Itaru waits until Chikage’s footsteps outside the door recede into the distance, and then releases the cough that’s been sitting in his chest. A petal flies out of his throat and he catches it in one palm; it’s white, a freesia again. Immaturity. Well, he probably deserves that much for hoping Chikage would ruin Tonooka’s life. 

That reminds him of the orange petals from earlier, though, so he gets out his phone and does a few minutes of searching in incognito mode. It turns out there are a lot of flowers with long orange petals, and Itaru finds himself wishing he had taken a photo of the toilet after all, as gross as that thought is. Chrysanthemum petals are too small; the meaning is off too, all things about friendship and trust, which either rules it out completely or laughs in Itaru’s face, he’s not sure which. The Mexican sunflower looks close, but it’s too small too, as are daisies. 

Eventually, he scrolls through a list of color variants and finds orange lilies, then scrolls through another list of lily meanings, and finds that orange lilies can symbolize hatred and revenge. So, yeah, that’s probably what it is. That’s probably what the twist in his gut is, not only anger and hate but flowers that mean it, too. 

So that’s that, he thinks, laying back on his pillow. Staring at his ceiling offers no comfort, but when he thinks about getting back on his DS to play IV, the nausea wells up in his gut again. His usual comfort scenarios, ones where he’s Lancelot, traveling through distant lands with Gwen at his side, feel too far away, too foggy, and something in his chest stops him from getting closer. He has other games he could play, obviously, but if he can’t play Kniroun, he kind of doesn’t want to do anything. 

This thing really is getting the best of him.

* * *

Itaru tries to play Kniroun several times over the next week. With Chikage working at his desk, he tries IV again, gets a little further than before, and then ends up swallowing so many flowers in an attempt to hide them from his roommate that he has no appetite for dinner later. At night, when Chikage is out doing who knows what, Itaru tries VII; for the first time in years, memories resurface of the midnight release party he attended with Tonooka, and he has to run to the bathroom, barely dodging around Juza and Taichi coming down the hall. 

The next day, he waits until evening again and then tries II, hoping its sprawling dungeons, only good for hours of mindless grinding, will keep his mind off everything and let him ease back into his favorite fictional universe. He even puts on one of this season’s new anime in the background, an adaptation of an ongoing shounen manga by a pretty new studio that he’s seen some friends talking about. In the end, he doesn’t even make it through to the first dungeon before he’s coughing up petals, mind full of fuzzy thoughts of what Tonooka would think if he could see Itaru now.

So he takes a break from Kniroun for a few days, and watches that anime, and it feels like he’d rather be dead. Or like no matter what he chooses, it’ll feel like that. Either he won’t be able to play the games that have saved him so many times they’re practically a part of him now, or he’ll play them, and his body will think about Tonooka, and he’ll choke on flowers, and _really_ die. He thinks about this a little too hard and has to duck out of a meeting to go sit miserably in the bathroom until he can breathe again. The next day he has to take the afternoon off for the same reason. 

Laying in his bed in the middle of the workday, he tries Kniroun one last time, but he’s barely clicked past the title screen when he feels the flowers unfurling in his throat.

He’s learning that it’s dangerous to dwell on thoughts like these, but the worse he feels, the more the thoughts hang over him. If he thinks of Tonooka during a meeting, for example, there’s a good chance he’ll have to bow out so he can spit some flowers into the bathroom sink, or worse. The longer it takes to clear his lungs, the greater the risk of someone missing him and coming to find him, or even someone random entering the bathroom and catching him. The bathrooms at work and at the dorms are all multi-use; there’s no privacy to be had. In this, Itaru’s precedent of keeping odd hours does him good, but the longer he stays up, spending hours just mindlessly watching anime and waiting for his breathing to get under control, the more tired he is at work, the weaker his body is, and the more susceptible his mind is to thoughts of Tonooka that he can’t shake. 

One afternoon of leave turns into a day off, then a long weekend, then a whole two days missed in the middle of the week. And the scary part is Itaru doesn’t think twice about calling out that time. All he wants is for his body to cooperate, and it stubbornly refuses to. Nevermind trying to play Kniroun; he just wants to go half an hour without thinking about Tonooka. Without having to spit out flowers; without wondering how many more flowers he can swallow before his body rejects them. 

He manages to fall asleep around 17:00, and dozes on through Chikage coming home; Chikage doesn’t wake him for dinner, so he sleeps through that too. Only later, a knock on the door startles him out of a murky dream, and before he can say anything, the door swings open to admit Citron.

Itaru clears his throat, hopes against hope that there aren’t any flower petals or anything else suspicious on the bed that he forgot about, and peers over the railing to greet Citron.

“It’s time for rehearsal,” Citron says gently. Somehow he always seems to sense when Itaru isn’t doing great, even if he can’t read Itaru’s mind as to why. “Chikage said you left work early.”

“I’m feeling sick again,” Itaru croaks. The lie he told when this first started is getting worn thin with all the use it’s getting. “Can I miss this one?”

Citron’s mouth shifts unhappily. “You missed Monday night, you know.”

Itaru had forgotten all about Monday’s rehearsal; he had spent half of it in the bathroom. “Oh yeah.”

“If you’re not feeling well for this long,” Citron starts, “you should see a doctor. I can come with you if you want.”

It’s sweet; it’s exactly the kind of unquestioning support that he expects from his troupemates. He would do the same in a heartbeat if any of them were in trouble. He hasn’t spent enough time with any of them over the past few weeks to even know how they’re doing these days. Itaru’s chest hurts. “I’ll think about it. Thanks.”

“Good.” Citron lifts his chin, his gaze still on Itaru. Itaru wishes he wouldn’t. “I will let Spring Troupe know you aren’t feeling well. If you do feel up to coming to rehearsal, please try to come.”

“I will. Thanks, Citron.”

Citron lets himself out, closing the door behind him. Itaru listens until the door clicks shut, and then tries to breathe in. His lungs are so full, thick with thorns and unbloomed buds. Trying to get enough oxygen to not be dizzy takes effort. 

He can’t even remember what Spring is rehearsing for right now, if it’s just a regular rehearsal to keep their skills sharp or preparing for a play. He would know if they had a new play, right? When was the last time he talked to Tsuzuru? It’s for the best, because Itaru’s been having trouble standing for longer periods of time, much less concentrating on memorizing lines or blocking. 

For now, he barely has the brainpower to devote to wondering about the relationships most precious to him. All he can do is lay on his back and fight to breathe.

* * *

He does think about Citron’s suggestion, during the rest of the week as he struggles through each day, each hour. He would want to go to the doctor alone, he decides; he’s gone this far without telling his troupemates anything, and telling them now would just scare them. He doesn’t have the energy to explain anyway. He tries to think about how he might explain himself, how he let this get to this point. How easily he’s allowed it to smother his life, how placidly he’s adapted to the vines crushing his chest. 

He thinks about surgery, about being able to breathe again, about thinking about Tonooka and not feeling anything. So many things now remind him of Tonooka; it’s like the guy has a grip on everything in Itaru’s life. If Itaru cuts out the part of him that can’t let Tonooka go, what will happen to everything he associates with Tonooka? If, now, he can’t think about Kniroun without thinking about Tonooka, does that mean in some sick way that the flowers have grown around his love of Kniroun, too?

At first, it seems stupid. Far-fetched. But if that’s the case, why can’t he play Kniroun without feeling sick? Why does Tonooka’s voice play in his head every time he picks up a Kniroun game? 

He can’t risk it. There has to be some other way. 

That weekend, he misses another Spring rehearsal. Chikage mentions offhand on the drive home from work that Izumi has some new etude exercises planned, so Itaru assumes they aren’t rehearsing for a new play after all. It must be one of the other troupes who’s gearing up to use the main theater; he remembers seeing some construction out front the other day. The thought of doing some etudes with everyone and going to see another troupe production makes a little bit of hope stir in his chest. When he gets to his room, though, and climbs into bed, his body holds him there, exhausted and dizzy, drifting through fitful dreams, until he opens his eyes and the clock across the room says it’s well past midnight. 

Maybe trying to conceal his predicament from his troupe was the wrong call, he thinks one night, when he’s too tired to get out of bed for the third day in a row, his body weak from missing meals and struggling to breathe, but the idea of trying to break it to them now is so exhausting that he simply shelves it away for the next day, the next day. All he wants to do now is stay alive. At some point, he lost sight of everything else. Everything he’s built up here — not just his troupe, the most important people to him, but the friends he’s made at MANKAI, the love and worthiness he feels he has here — should be a safety net, but somehow he’s falling to rock bottom anyway. Even realizing that doesn’t make him feel anything other than dull nausea. 

When he looks in the mirror, he doesn’t recognize the person he’s become. His sunken eyes and cheeks, his chapped lips, his limp hair, he looks more like he had as a teenager. The haunted look in his eyes is especially familiar. Living a lie, just trying to survive from one day to the next. He wonders if he’d recognize himself in the Knights of Round IV The Stage promotional materials. That was only a few months ago. The thought of pulling those images up makes him feel sick. 

* * *

“You forgot to grab the lunch Omi made you this morning,” Chikage says, infuriatingly persistent. He plops a bag down on the counter next to Itaru’s arm. “I brought it for you. Eat something besides Cola.”

Itaru doesn’t want to eat. His chest hurts from flowers, and his stomach hurts from flowers too. He’s pretty sure humans can’t digest whole flower buds, which is unfortunate, because he’s swallowed a lot of them today. He feels the press of petals in the back of his throat as he shakes his head. 

“Eat,” Chikage repeats, practically a threat. _Eat or else_. He plants himself in the seat next to Itaru and starts opening his own lunch. The smell of last night’s curry is nauseating, and Itaru buries his nose in his folded arms, now barely able to see his phone screen over them. 

He prays that his social media will distract him, that Chikage will give up eventually. Unfortunately it’s hard to hide the fact that he’s not eating from the guy he spends almost all of his time with, but on the other hand, he’s managed to hide his fucking terminal illness from Chikage this long. Room 103 is for liars. Realistically, though, Itaru’s going to crack soon. Chikage cracked eventually, too, back when he was living a lie. 

Itaru takes a breath and opens Twitter. The usual chatter from the other streamers and fans he follows is comforting, and there seem to be new details about Kniroun X again, although it takes a while for Itaru to parse this from the slew of tweets that are just “ _eh_?!?!?”. Eventually he pinpoints at least which fandom has the news, and instinctively goes right to the End Links official Twitter for clues. 

There’s an announcement video, and Itaru slips his earbuds out of his pocket before thinking about it. The video is two minutes long; there’s nothing useful in the caption that can help Itaru predict how it’ll make his body react.

He’s sick of all this mental math. He’s sick of having to gauge the risk to his health whenever he wants to engage with the one series that’s made life worth living for practically his whole life. He should be allowed to watch this; he should be allowed to enjoy Kniroun. He shouldn’t be letting that guy have this much power over him.

He opens the video.

The first thirty seconds are taken up by flashing logos and footage Itaru’s already seen. Thirty seconds is a long time; the video is paced slowly, and the music is familiar, comforting. He allows himself to breathe, to hope. Then the words ‘ _Collab Promotion_!’ appear, and there’s no warning before a familiar voice rings through Itaru’s ears. 

“ _Hey Kniroun fans, I bet you’re just as excited for X as we are! That’s why we’ve decided to offer_ —“

Itaru doesn’t hear the rest. There’s a rushing sound in his ears, and his fingers holding his phone go slack, and he’s acutely aware of his stomach lurching up into his throat. He moves mechanically, his legs getting him off the chair and down the hall to the bathroom on instinct alone. He barely manages to shut the stall door behind him before he’s on his knees in front of the toilet. The nausea inside him crests and spills over. 

It hurts. It hurts. His insides feel like they’re being split open with a blunt knife. His eyes and nose burn, and his throat is scratched raw with thorns and stems. Worse, the flowers aren’t coming up easily. The clumps of half-digested plant matter in his stomach, the leaves and petals crowding his lungs and windpipe, all of it is swelling and bursting free from pipes and organs too small to hold it, too narrow to permit its escape. Itaru grips the white porcelain of the toilet rim and prays he won’t pass out. 

“Chigasaki? Are you—”

Ah, right. Chikage. 

There’s literally nothing Itaru can do to stop Chikage coming in and seeing, so he doesn’t even try. In a way, the resignation is comforting. There’s nothing else he can do to save his own miserable life. He’s already in so much pain. Whatever happens next can’t be worse than the feeling of his insides clawing their way up his throat. 

It’s hard to breathe like this. He spits a whole flower bud into the toilet and realizes it’s almost the size of his palm. He’s too dizzy, his vision too blurry, to try to identify the flower. Tsumugi would know. He feels pressure on his shoulders and finds Chikage’s gripping him. Why? He’s still coughing wet pats of leaves into the toilet. He’s still burning up from the inside out. _Chigasaki_ , Chikage says, distant, like he’s calling from down the hall. There’s an emotion in Chikage’s voice that Itaru hasn’t heard before. Itaru tries to breathe, but no air will get past the flowers in his windpipe. Growing, blooming. He’s suffocating, he thinks. _How seriously pathetic_. 

_Itaru_ , Chikage yells, and Itaru’s eyes slip closed. 

* * *

When Itaru wakes up, he’s tucked firmly into a hospital bed. 

There’s a needle in his arm, he assumes. He can’t feel it, but there’s a tube running from a beeping machine by the bed to a spot under the blanket Itaru’s tucked firmly under. He takes a breath, or tries to; his throat feels raw, his mouth dry and full of a bitter taste. He tries to lick his lips, and finds the taste there too.

The room is empty of people, but Itaru’s phone is placed by the bedside. He wrestles his non-needle arm free of the blankets and reaches for it; the second his hand closes around the familiar ridges of his phone case, he feels comforted, tethered to something that’s not his own mortality. He unlocks the phone and finds several LIME notifications, mostly from other company members. Great. Chikage probably didn’t tell too many people, but news spreads fast at the dorms. 

A few minutes pass, in which Itaru has nothing to do but process the situation in which he finds himself. Slowly, the memories of earlier that day leech back into his consciousness. His exhausted morning at work, all the flowers he’d swallowed in his morning meetings. Losing control over lunch, and Chikage finding him in the bathroom stall. That would have been early afternoon. His phone lets him know it’s evening now. His body doesn’t hurt as much now, not the sharp, rending pain from earlier. Maybe they gave him some painkillers, something to stabilize him. He doubts the flowers have gone away. 

The fragile bubble of peace doesn’t last. Itaru has barely started to thumb through his mobage notifications when there are footsteps outside his door. He sets his phone down on his lap as the door swings open to admit a doctor, and then, predictable as clockwork, the entire rest of Spring Troupe, plus the Director.

“You’re awake,” Sakuya blurts out, and he practically fights his way to the front, dodging around the doctor so that he can be the first to Itaru’s bedside. Only one of Itaru’s hands is available but Sakuya wastes no time in grabbing it, as if he needs physical proof that Itaru is still there. His face is drawn, and up close, Itaru can see the remnants of tear streaks. His gut twists. 

“Hi,” he says. His voice comes out awful, raw, and he shuts his mouth quickly. He wouldn't have spoken if he knew he’d sound worse than silence.

As the doctor approaches, Sakuya jumps up, releasing Itaru’s hand, and the doctor bends down and starts checking what Itaru assumes are vitals. He’s distracted trying to gauge the moods of the rest of Spring and Izumi. They mostly look concerned, or stressed out, which Itaru tells himself is reasonable, that he’d be the same if he was in their position. Even Citron’s face is solemn, which may be the hardest for Itaru to see. He let himself get to this state, after all. None of them had any idea, as far as Itaru’s aware. He really messed this one up, worrying his family like this...

His family. That’s true, isn’t it? It’s not as though his parents or (god forbid) his sister are here; Itaru has no idea if they’ve even been notified. But Spring and Izumi are here, somehow all six allowed into the room despite it being evening, so who knows when visiting hours are. Well, if they encountered any issues, Chikage probably got his way through some sort of means. It’s not like Itaru minds, when he really thinks about it. 

“How do you feel?” the doctor asks Itaru, pulling him out of his thoughts.

It’s a fair question. In truth, he feels mostly numb, even including the pain he still has; he’s been living in relative discomfort for a while, after all. “Not too bad,” he says. 

The doctor raises her eyebrows.

“Uh,” Itaru elaborates. “My throat hurts. I feel tired.” Neither of those are unusual, though. “Have I been given a painkiller or something like that?”

“Yes,” the doctor says. “A painkiller, as well as an anti-inflammatory, and fluids to keep you hydrated.”

Itaru nods. “Thank you.”

“I suppose you know what’s next,” the doctor says. She pulls up one of the chairs against the wall and sits down at Itaru’s side. “Your condition is severe. At this point, we would recommend you pursue surgery to remove the root of your condition, which would cure your hanahaki disease and allow you to heal.”

The others seem to startle at the classification of _severe_. Itaru is dreading the discussions that will certainly follow, about how long he’s been hiding this, and why, and who, all questions he’s sure they could answer for themselves but that they’ll want Itaru to talk about anyway. There’s hope, Itaru supposes, in that it’s curable. That he could just cut the disease out of him, and never have to deal with it again. That all his feelings for Tonooka will die off and become nothing. 

He thinks about all the times he’s felt the flowers growing and rustling in his chest, all the petals he’s coughed up, all the pain, the exhaustion, the stress, the anger. He thinks about all the times he wanted to play Kniroun, or look at Kniroun fanwork, or stream, and the flowers surged in his throat. 

There’s more than just Tonooka, that he stands to lose. 

Abruptly, he realizes the doctor has finished talking, that he missed her entire explanation. Her eyes are on him, inquisitive. All he feels is tired, too tired to think about anything.

“Let me think about it,” Itaru says. He’s grateful that the wheeze in his voice is barely audible this time; it’s a small mercy. “Thank you.”

The doctor’s expression is neutral as she nods and gets up to leave. Probably she’s used to people refusing the surgery altogether; maybe Itaru has her hopeful. At any rate, the doctor’s opinion of him barely matters. Of greater weight are those of his troupe — his family — who all look poised to burst out talking as soon as the door shuts behind the doctor. 

As the door swishes behind the doctor, Itaru holds up his hand. He watches Tsuzuru and Izumi’s mouths snap shut, watches Chikage’s lips purse in a tight line. 

“I,” Itaru starts. The wheeze is back in his chest, when he draws the breath he needs to get his words out. “I don’t know if I want the surgery.”

His hands, still in the air, are transparently the only things keeping his family silent. Sakuya twitches, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. Masumi’s face is a mask; his emotions show only in his fingers, twisted up in his headphone cord, white-tipped. Behind him, Citron is truly unreadable. 

“If I lose my feelings — for Tonooka,” Itaru continues, and now he’s avoiding looking at his troupemates’ faces as he reveals the object of his affections. It’s taking a lot of effort even to talk; the words feel like thorns coming up. This is no longer a feeling Itaru has to reach into his imagination for. “What if I lose my feelings for Kniroun, too?” 

It’s horrible to have to talk about this. It’s horrible to lay out twenty years of—of passion, of tears, of devotion, of. Of love. Like this, in a sterile hospital room, with his family playing judge and jury, his body executioner. 

“Why would you lose your feelings for Kniroun,” Chikage says. Sakuya and Tsuzuru’s heads whip around to look at him; apparently the silencing hold of Itaru’s raised hands is still in effect, even if Chikage knows no rules. 

It’s a fair question, especially from someone with so little information, but it’s not one Itaru wants to answer when his chest is full of flowers, cutting into his breaths, curling up his throat. 

“He’s right,” Sakuya bursts out, before Itaru can try and form words. “You loved Kniroun before you were friends with him, right? And you loved it after you stopped being friends! So your feelings for Kniroun wouldn’t be related to him at all, right?”

“If you don’t get surgery,” Chikage continues, “you’ll die.”

“I know,” Itaru says. The words catch in his throat and he coughs, embarrassed by how wet it sounds. Probably better than what he has to say, though. “I— If it’s a choice of Kniroun or death, I... I don’t want to live without Kniroun, so...”

He watches with a dull feeling in his chest as Chikage clicks his tongue in frustration. Tsuzuru finally abandons his silence. “Itaru-san, be serious—“

“I am,” Itaru starts. 

“He is,” Citron says. His voice is firm, carrying Itaru’s point as Itaru fights to breathe. “You don’t have to understand it, but it is Itaru’s choice.”

Itaru would cry, but he already can’t breathe. He relaxes against the pillows, focusing on clearing his throat as quietly as possible so he won’t attract more concern. 

“Maybe the doctor will know more,” Izumi’s saying. “If Itaru-san asks specifically. Surely the procedure wouldn’t mess with any feelings except—you know. The unrequited love.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Tsuzuru says. “Itaru-san’s _life_ is the most important part. I can't believe you would—“

“I would,” Masumi says. 

The interruption is quiet, but Tsuzuru stops immediately, turning his incredulous expression on Masumi instead. “Masumi?!”

Masumi shrugs. “If it was a choice between not loving the Director and dying, I'd die.”

Izumi’s expression looks very complicated. “Masumi-kun...”

“Neither of you have to die,” Tsuzuru snaps. 

“Do you want some space to think, Itaru?” Citron asks quietly. 

Before he can answer, his phone starts vibrating in his lap. It’s a call from Banri — he should have expected this. 

“Banri is calling,” he says, showing his phone screen to his troupemates. “I guess I will take that space.”

With obvious reluctance, the other members of Spring Troupe shuffle back out the door. Citron hangs back, hesitating in the doorframe. “Itaru,” he says, his voice low. “Do you want me to stay in case you can’t speak?”

It’s a reasonable question, but Itaru didn’t realize how much he wanted to be alone until the others started to leave, and now he burns with it. “I'll be okay,” he says, forcing a smile. “Thanks, Citron.”

Citron nods, and reaches out to pat Itaru’s shoulder. “Let us know when you want us back.”

As soon as the door shuts behind Citron, Itaru sags against his pillows. All the emotions he’s feeling right now threaten to overwhelm him, and the call from Banri has timed out anyway, so he doesn’t have to speak unless Banri calls again. Tears fill his eyes and he makes no effort to stop this. If he suffocates from the combination of crying and flowers, so be it. He already stupidly told his family he’d rather die. 

As if he’s aware that Itaru’s thinking fatalistically, Banri calls again, and Itaru jolts as the phone vibrates in his lap once more. He slides to accept the call with shaking hands. 

“’taru-san,” Banri says immediately, not giving Itaru a chance to greet him. “Chikage-san said you’re in the hospital. Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Itaru croaks. Chikage tattled on him, huh. Well, it’s probably good that Banri knows.

Banri whistles. “Damn, you sound like shit.”

“If that’s all you called to say,” Itaru starts.

“No, no, wait.” Banri backpedals, and Itaru hears shuffling in the background, like Banri’s moving around or sitting down. “Sorry. Hey, are you able to talk much?”

“Everyone left for a bit,” Itaru says. 

“No, I mean your lungs, fucker. I can’t hear if you’re wheezing over the phone.” 

Itaru presses the phone right up to his mouth and inhales, the pull of the flowers in his lungs easily audible.

“Damn,” Banri says again. 

It’s not like there’s much to say. If they were together physically, it might be easier; Itaru could put his head on Banri’s shoulder, and Banri could pull out his phone and play a game and Itaru could watch. Banri would probably politely ignore it if Itaru started crying, too. He doubts the others would afford the same courtesy; his family is pretty nosy. 

His chest hurts, and his head hurts, and he feels both dizzy and leaden at the same time. He wants to sleep for a week, but the longer he sleeps the more flowers pile up, and he wakes up choking. The longer he’s awake, the more he’s aware of the flowers pressing at his insides. It’s hard to inhale enough oxygen to keep the dizziness at bay; it’s hard to breathe with flowers curling in his lungs and throat. 

There’s a knock on the door, and Itaru startles. He scrubs at his face, wiping a few tears that fell unsupervised. “Come in,” he says, and as an afterthought he hangs up the call with Banri, belatedly swiping to LIME to let him know that someone came in. 

The door swings open, admitting the doctor from before. She smiles apologetically, and takes the chairs by the bed again. 

“Did my troupemates tell you anything,” Itaru says.

The doctor shrugs one shoulder. “They said you had some questions about the surgery that you hoped I could answer.”

How diplomatic. Itaru nods, settling back against the pillows. “I do...have some questions.”

The doctor nods. “Go ahead.”

“Um...” It sounds stupid now that he has to tell a professional. Itaru stares at his hands. “Will the surgery affect... Other memories, or feelings, besides my feelings toward...” He doesn’t want to say his name again.

“Toward the target of your feelings,” the doctor fills in mercifully. 

Itaru bobs his head in a jerky nod.

“What the surgery does is cut out the root, the seed, of the feelings growing within you.” The doctor gestures with her hands like she’s scooping something out of a hole. “It’s extremely localized, so it will only affect the feelings towards the target. Everything else should remain intact. Patients who have undergone this surgery report a dull feeling toward the person they previously had affections for, but their feelings for other things, such as frequent date spots, or TV shows they enjoyed with the target, are unchanged. In other words,” she clarifies, “they’ve described the memories directly related to the target as dulled, but not the enjoyment of the thing itself.”

Itaru exhales, the loud wheeze of his chest at odds with the rush of relief he feels. 

“That’s... Good to know,” he manages.

“That’s good!” The doctor smiles at him. “We could also connect you with survivors of the procedure, although if I may be frank, you don’t have a lot of time to decide.”

“Yeah, that’s what I figured.”

The doctor nods. “Is that all you wanted to ask?”

There’s suddenly a lot to process. The question blocking him from considering the surgery seriously seems to have been removed, if this doctor is conveying the truth. Itaru didn’t pay much attention to the explanation earlier, and it feels rude to ask for her to repeat things, but he’s also a patient who can’t breathe right, so maybe he can play that up — a reprise of his sickly role. 

He asks for a review of the surgery process. He doesn’t care about things like scars (it’ll probably look cool), or bed rest (prime gaming time!), but he should know how much leave he’ll need to request from work (on top of the leave he’s already taken for this stupid disease), and how painful it’ll be (stupid low pain tolerance). The doctor is patient, and dutifully answers all of his questions, even speaking slower when Itaru pulls out his phone and takes notes. 

Ten minutes later, he can’t think of anything else, and he thanks the doctor sincerely this time. 

“I’ll bring you paperwork within an hour,” she tells him.

As the door closes behind her, a hand reaches out and catches it. Itaru, relaxing against his pillows, stiffens again as Chikage eases through the opening and snaps the door shut behind him.

“Hi,” Itaru mumbles.

“Hi.” Chikage sits down in the chair the doctor left. He folds his hands in his lap, pursing his lips as he considers what to say. Itaru can only read Chikage because they spend so much time together; Chikage’s still put together physically, his shirt neatly tucked in and his hair in its usual immaculate fluff, but he’s hesitating uncharacteristically. 

“The doctor says the surgery should only affect my feelings for Tonooka,” Itaru tells him, before Chikage can speak. 

Chikage nods. Itaru gets the distinct feeling that Chikage heard the entire conversation; typical cheat. 

“So you guys can stop being mad at me,” Itaru presses. Maybe he’s feeling cheeky; the discussion with the doctor certainly left him feeling more optimistic. 

“We’re not mad.” Chikage takes a breath, and then places his hand on the bed, near Itaru’s. “The others are worried.”

“Not you, though?”

“I am worried too,” Chikage admits. 

He’s not looking at Itaru; his jaw is set deliberately. “I take it you’re choosing the surgery, then. I can help you get extra PTO at work, if you want.”

“Cheat,” Itaru mumbles. He _really_ wants to let Chikage do that. “We’ll see. Maybe I’ll heal fast.”

Chikage scoffs. “Maybe.”

The flowers are still growing in Itaru’s chest, but somehow it feels easier to breathe. The knowledge that the surgery won’t take away one of the most important things in his life, and the sight of Chikage almost-smiling, no longer scowling like Itaru’s personally disappointed him, both of them loosen the tight knot in his chest. 

He takes a deep breath, and promptly starts coughing again. Ah, hubris.

“Do you need a bucket,” Chikage says dryly, as Itaru covers his mouth with his hands. Itaru shakes his head, which only makes him dizzier. 

“Careful,” Chikage murmurs. He puts his hand on Itaru’s back, and the warmth radiating from his palm somehow seems to ease Itaru’s breathing. 

He spits a few flower buds into his palm (freesia; yeah, he probably is being childish), and shows them to Chikage. “Do you actually have a bucket.”

“There’s a trash can by the door,” Chikage says, “but I doubt it’s for biological waste.”

“It’s for whatever I need,” Itaru says, beckoning with one hand. Chikage hands over the trash can, and Itaru tosses his sad flowers into it with no remorse.

“You should rest,” Chikage says. His hand is no longer on Itaru’s back, and Itaru kind of wishes it was. “You’ve had a rough afternoon. I’ll let the others know what you decided.”

“I heard you’re talking with Banri,” Itaru wheezes.

“Yes,” Chikage smiles. “Is there anyone else you want me to tell?”

A name pops into Itaru’s head, and he has to swallow a wave of nausea. “No.”

He doubts this passed unnoticed, but Chikage doesn’t comment. He pats Itaru’s knee through the blanket, and stands up. “All right.”

At the door, Chikage looks back. “If anyone else wants to come visit,” he says, and then pauses, which Itaru takes to mean the others absolutely do want to come visit him, “would that be all right?”

“As long as they take it easy on me.”

“Ha. I’ll let them know.” 

Thus, predictably, Itaru only rests for a few minutes before there’s a new knock on the door. When he calls, “Come in,” Citron opens the door, and then shuts it quickly behind himself, as if ensuring he’s alone. Itaru takes a moment to value his eldest troupemates’ commitment to giving Itaru as much peace as possible. 

“Hi,” Itaru says.

Citron sits next to the bed, and immediately reaches for Itaru’s hand. He slots their fingers together, and the warmth of his hand surprises Itaru. The hospital bed is colder than he thought. 

“Chikage says you’re choosing the surgery.”

“Yup.”

“I’m happy,” Citron says, although he still looks so serious. “I know it is your decision, and I may be the wrong person to say this. But if something happened to you...”

“I know,” Itaru interrupts.

“I would miss you a lot.” Citron lifts his eyes, and his gaze is bright, clear. Itaru fights the urge to look away. “So, I’m happy. And it does not matter that you didn’t tell us.”

Guilt prickles in Itaru’s chest. “Doesn’t it?”

“Well,” Citron amends, “it matters to the others. Like Tsuzuru, I expect, has a lot to say to you about it. But I would be a hippopotamus if I held that against you.”

“A hypocrite,” Itaru corrects, trying not to laugh. “You’re not a hippopotamus.”

Citron laughs. Just a little, but the sound brightens the room. “That’s right.”

“I appreciate it, Citron.”

“It’s nothing.” Citron squeezes Itaru’s hand. “I should go. There are others who have many more words to say to you than I do. When you wake up from your surgery, I will take care of you as much as you need. Mama will wait on Papa for his every need.”

“You don’t have to go that far.”

“It would be my pleasure.” Citron winks. Itaru thinks his chest might have fluttered if it wasn’t so clogged with flowers. “We’re Kniroun comrades, after all. If you are getting to know Kniroun again, I am happy to accompany you.”

Itaru doesn’t know how he feels about that. After prodding at the feeling a little, he decides that he’s happy Citron offered, but the thought of his relationship with Kniroun changing is too scary to think about. To be fair, though, his relationship with Kniroun has changed a lot during the course of this condition, so maybe a change is for the better. 

“Thanks,” he says, and tries to mean it. 

Citron pats the back of Itaru’s hand, and then stands. “I believe our leader wanted to be next. I will tell him to be gentle.”

“I’m more worried about Tsuzuru. And the Director.”

“Ah, shall I send one of them in? Rip the band-aid off?”

“That’s not very gentle...”

“I suppose not.” Citron looks back, hand on the doorknob. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

“Sure.”

Over the next half hour or so, the rest of Spring visits Itaru to say their pieces. Really, it’s just a lot of Itaru wanting to wring his past self’s neck for not telling his troupemates until his disease got this bad. It’s Sakuya sitting across from Itaru and telling him in a level voice that it’s okay that Itaru didn’t say anything, that he’s sure Itaru was managing as best he could, and that he’s just glad Itaru is getting help now, that it’s not too late. The steady grip of Sakuya’s hands on Itaru’s as he says it, the clear color of his eyes, all of it makes it hard for Itaru to look at him. If he thinks too hard about the number of times Sakuya’s had to beg someone not to leave the troupe, and the fact that this isn’t even Itaru’s first time in that role, he’s going to cry for real. And he already can’t breathe very well.

And then it’s Tsuzuru, trailed by a sullen Masumi, and as Tsuzuru rants and waves his hands about how irresponsible Itaru is, how worried he made everyone, Itaru meets Masumi’s eyes, expecting to find solidarity, but instead Masumi just frowns. Like he agrees with everything Tsuzuru’s saying, but won’t say it himself. It’s okay, Itaru thinks, that Tsuzuru is laying into him, because really, no one else is going to say it, maybe because they’re too polite, or because they figure it’s pointless, and hearing it once is better than hearing it six times. Eventually Tsuzuru runs out of steam, or maybe he just thinks Itaru isn’t listening anymore (Itaru would blame the pain meds if asked), and then he just awkwardly pats Itaru’s shoulder and tells him to get some rest. Masumi gives him one last death stare, and then the two of them leave.

Finally, Izumi comes to visit. She must have checked with Tsuzuru first and determined that he did a satisfactory job putting Itaru through the wringer, because she’s remarkably polite. Instead, she channels what must be an incredible amount of worry into fussing over Itaru’s pillows and blankets, checking the machines beeping around him despite clearly not knowing what most of them are for, and helping Itaru come up with a list of things he needs from the dorm. That, at least, is helpful; it’s not like Itaru left for work this morning knowing he’d be staying in the hospital. He doesn’t ask for any game consoles, and Izumi doesn’t mention it. (And, well. He still has his phone with its dozens of GB of mobage, and his charger that he always has in his work bag, so it’s not like he’s quitting games cold turkey. Obviously.)

The conversation with Izumi is winding down, and she’s just started to stifle a yawn with one hand when the doctor comes in with another doctor and a clipboard full of paperwork. A moment later, Chikage joins them as well, which Itaru instantly clocks as Chikage trying to ensure, even through staring menacingly from the doorway, that Itaru isn’t signing away some vital right by accident. It makes Itaru feel a little fond, and then a little annoyed when Chikage asks to ‘glance over’ the forms after Itaru’s done with them. And then everything is signed, and the doctor lets him know he’s scheduled for a procedure in the morning.

“Can’t even sleep in,” he jokes, which earns him a lot of blank stares. 

“You can sleep plenty after the surgery,” Izumi says. 

“Yeah, I know.”

The doctor gives him some instructions on eating and if he needs anything during the night, lets him know when to wake up for prep, and then bids him goodnight. Itaru’s phone lets him know it’s nearly 22:00, and his stomach jolts with the realization that he hasn’t touched any of his games. Maybe it’s not a good thing that he’s in the hospital for a serious medical issue and the most emotion he’s felt all evening is about video games. Well, that’s nothing new, though.

Izumi and Chikage linger in the room. Itaru looks up at them. “Are you all going home now?”

“Well, I have to,” Izumi starts, which Itaru fully expected. She is the director of the entire company, after all. “At the very least, I need to get the things you asked for. Chikage-san, if you want to come with me and help me find things in your room...”

Chikage looks like that’s the opposite of what he wants to do, but he nods stiffly. “Sure. We can drive everyone back. At least, the kids should get some rest.”

“You don’t all need to come back tomorrow,” Itaru tries, and earns two glares in his direction. “I’m serious. All I’m going to be doing is sleeping.”

“Anyway,” Izumi says to Chikage, “we should see if anyone can stay the night tonight. Citron-kun or Sakuya-kun might be the best, since neither of them has school or work in the morning.”

“Sakuya might have part-time work,” Chikage says.

“I don’t need anyone to stay with me,” Itaru tries, which he knows is bold words from someone who hasn’t tried getting out of bed yet. 

“Ignore him,” Chikage tells Izumi. “I can stay if needed. I don’t need the sleep, and I’m sure I’ll be on Chigasaki watch duty once he’s back home anyway. May as well start now.”

Itaru swallows a bratty retort, because he’s probably right. At the very least, Chikage’s already seen Itaru do the most embarrassing things out of anyone in MANKAI, so it’s in Itaru’s best interest to keep it that way. 

“Everyone is going to want to come back tomorrow when they’re free,” Izumi says. “If you’re coming back tonight, I can bring everyone else tomorrow.”

“Sure. Just be careful. We don’t need anyone else hospitalized.”

“My driving is fine!” Izumi insists. This time, she’s the one who gets ignored. 

Eventually, Izumi and the rest of Spring leave the hospital, and Itaru lays in bed for about half an hour, during which time he catches up on his neglected mobage. After a while, he finds his pain starting to grow again, and his full bladder and empty stomach start to demand his attention, too. He should be able to use the bathroom on his own, he decides, so he pulls the blankets off of himself and drags his little IV stand with him into the tiny, frighteningly sterile bathroom in one corner of his room.

He only catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror above the sink, but his reflection shocks him enough that he freezes, staring. His eyes are sunken and his lips chapped, and there’s a faint smear of what might be blood on his chin. He opens his mouth and tries to stick out his tongue, but it hurts; the back of his tongue and throat look raw. Clumsily, he pulls at the ties of the hospital gown he’s been placed in, and finds his chest looks as thin and bony as ever — no outward signs of the growth inside. That’s for the best; Itaru’s not sure he could handle that kind of body horror on his own body. 

In the end, he manages to pee, and then he barely gets settled into bed before Chikage comes back with Citron. Itaru persuades them to get him pizza, which he is barely able to get down, and then a nurse comes in and gives him some more pain meds, at which point he chokes down some more pizza. Citron helps him brush his teeth and take his contacts out, and then Itaru wants to lay in bed and talk, or listen to Citron talk, but his eyelids are heavy, and the weight of his day settles on his chest and demands that he rest.

* * *

Itaru holds onto very few memories of the day of his surgery. He’s barely aware in the morning, when he’s being prepped, and he’s barely aware when it’s over. He’s in pain, and then he’s not. And then he is again. He knows Izumi and the rest of Spring are there, but he doesn’t actually remember talking to any of them. All he feels is a drowsiness that lifts, gradually, in the evening, hours after he’s been tucked into bed to recover.

He’s in a new room, presumably moved here since now he’s a recovering patient rather than an emergency one. There are no windows, and the only clock is too small to see easily, so Itaru only has his phone to tell the passage of time by. So all he knows when he wakes up and feels alert for the first time all day is that his throat is on fire. He sits up too fast, and has to slump back as his head lurches painfully. 

Chikage, sitting in a chair against the wall, looks up. “Careful,” he says, on his feet so fast Itaru misses the movement. “The doctors said you’ll be thirsty.” He hands Itaru a large bottle of water with a generic label; it’s room temperature, but Itaru gulps down about half of it in one go. His lungs hurt when he takes a deep breath. 

“How are you feeling?” Chikage asks.

“Throat hurts,” Itaru manages. His voice is a croak. “Breathing hurts.”

“That’s to be expected,” Chikage says, completely unsympathetic. And then, as if remembering his bedside manner, he adds, “They said your surgery went well.”

Itaru lays back against the pillows. It’s hard to take stock of his body, especially since everything feels vaguely numb. His chest hurts, and when he breathes in, his lungs hurt too. But it’s different from how they’ve felt before today — there’s nothing in them except air, and the pain from what was removed.

The next step he has to take is obvious. Cautious, he lets his thoughts stray to Tonooka. Just the name brings up nothing. He prods further, conjures up a memory of Tonooka during one of the Kniroun stageplay planning meetings, his gaze inscrutable as he sipped from a coffee cup. There’s nothing. No fury, no jealousy, no desperate wish for something that would never be. Just a numb feeling, and an echo of pain when he breathes out.

“I guess so,” Itaru says, even though it’s been several long seconds since Chikage spoke. 

“That’s good.”

The next part is scarier. Itaru stares at the blanket covering his body, the sterile off-white color, and thinks about Kniroun. Not even IV, but — he throws a dart in his head — VIII, whose storyline wasn’t particularly innovative but where the player could dress characters up and style their hair. Controversial for sure, but Itaru has to appreciate the wealth of fan content that cropped up in its wake, and he certainly did some fun streams of trying to get through the first hour of the game with the silliest hair and outfit combos possible.

It makes him smile to think about it, to remember the hours he’d spent streaming VIII and yelling about it on social media. Mostly, it’s a warm feeling. VIII had come out when Itaru was in university, so he doesn’t have a lot of memories of it that are tied to Tonooka. If anything, it was a game he played specifically to forget Tonooka, to reclaim the series from him. Thinking about that doesn’t hurt, either. 

With a fledgling sense of confidence, Itaru thinks about IV. About the plotlines and scenery, the musical motifs, the armor and swords. The memories of the stageplay are there too, how it felt to put on Yuki’s carefully made replica of Lancelot’s costume, to hold Lancelot’s sword in his hands. Watching his troupemates master their lines and don their costumes too, the dual sense of family he felt standing on the stage with them, the two most important things in his life, united. He think about Tonooka’s interference, the proposal he’d made to saddle Itaru with promoting the play when _he_ was supposed to be in charge of promo, him asking Itaru to reveal _taruchi_ ’s identity. He feels angry thinking about it, but his chest doesn’t get tighter. When he forces his mind back to the feeling of holding Lancelot’s sword, that anger doesn’t stay with him.

To go from weeks and weeks of Tonooka lurking in the shadows of every thought that crossed his mind, of the bitter taste of jealousy and hurt and every other nasty emotion tangible in the back of his throat, to this almost sterile lack of emotion, it’s dizzying. Itaru can’t discern what emotion he’s actually feeling about it. He hadn’t had much time to imagine how he’d feel after the surgery, but he should be happy, right? He isn’t dying over his unrequited feelings toward Tonooka anymore. He still feels positively toward Kniroun. He should be happy. The dizzying feeling should be relief, excitement to return to his old life. But that’s not it. He feels empty, lonely in a way he couldn’t have anticipated. The one thread he had tying him to Tonooka, to someone who was so important to him for so long, has been severed. What is he supposed to do now? 

“Does it hurt?” Chikage asks, his tone tense, and Itaru comes back into his body to find tears on his face.

“I don’t know,” he chokes out, and that’s all he can manage for a while.

* * *

“You’re very alert,” the doctor says, looking pleased. That may be the only compliment she can apply to Itaru, who probably looks like shit. The frown lines in Chikage’s brow don’t exactly relax. “How’s your pain?”

Itaru shrugs one shoulder. “Manageable.”

“I’d rather it be nonexistent, but that’s a start.” The doctor finishes recording Itaru’s vitals onto a clipboard she’s carried in, and sits down in a chair next to Chikage’s.“Your surgery went just fine. Although, I have to say, I’m impressed you were functioning as well as you were given the amount of damage the hanahaki disease had done to your insides.”

This time Itaru looks pointedly away from Chikage before he can see his expression. He’s not sure what to say. Frankly, he’s already starting to forget how it felt to survive like that, and he has no desire to hang onto the memories.

“The surgery did take a little longer than we anticipated. But you’ll heal up fine. We’re going to keep you here for about a week, depending on how your recovery progresses, so please let your place of employment know. I believe Tachibana-san already brought you some things you needed from your home?”

“Yes.” Itaru makes a mental note to ask Chikage about that extra leave. 

The doctor explains some of the machines around Itaru’s bed, the ones helping him breathe and the ones monitoring various vitals. She also goes over things like how he’ll want to use the bathroom, which Itaru _wishes_ Chikage wasn’t there to hear. And then she goes to the door, lets him know when someone will be checking in next, and then leaves.

Itaru does not really want to be alone with Chikage anymore.

“Senpai...”

Chikage holds up a hand. “If this is about the leave, I’ve already secured you two weeks off. I can get more if you need it.”

“Oh, yeah.” Well, that is something he wanted. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

The silence that stretches between them is brittle. Itaru remembers weeks ago when he’d confided in Spring Troupe about Tonooka, and the dangerous glint in Chikage’s eyes. The way he’d talked about Hoshii-san, like he really could ruin the guy’s career if he wanted to. Chikage, who had to be the one to see Itaru hit rock bottom in the middle of a workday — as if he hasn’t watched Itaru be an idiot dozens of times since they met, but not like that.

He wonders if Chikage is mad at him. Or if Chikage is hurt. It’s not clear which would feel worse. Itaru also doesn’t know if it would make him regret anything up to this point. Tsuzuru, at least, would probably tell Itaru that the success of his surgery proves he should have done it weeks ago, before his health deteriorated so much. 

“What are you thinking about?” Chikage asks.

Itaru doesn’t feel high on painkillers. He feels like his regular self, tired and numb and trying to find a point in it all. But he can probably pretend he’s a little out of it, if he needs justification for being honest. 

“I was wondering if you’re mad at me.”

Chikage’s expression is always so guarded; there’s little point in watching his face for clues. His lip twitches a little, and he shrugs; that’s all Itaru gets. “Would it upset you if I said yes?”

Typical senpai, dancing around the topic. “Well, I deserve it.”

“You’ve been through enough. I have no desire to heap more suffering on you, at least for now.” Ouch. Chikage takes a breath, his gaze fixed on a point just to the right of Itaru’s face. “I am angry at you, but mostly I’m angry at other things. And I’m worried, and afraid. And relieved.”

“That’s a lot of emotions,” Itaru says, and then hears the imaginary -10 friendship notif. Great response to Chikage showing even a fraction of emotional openness. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize. I don’t think that you mean it.” It comes out blunt, and Chikage backtracks visibly. “That is, I know you believe in the choices you made. I don’t expect you to regret them.”

He is right, but Itaru still doesn’t enjoy hearing it. “Yeah. But I can still be sorry for it.”

“That’s true.” Chikage pauses, like he’s weighing his words. “And... That is worth something to me, that you’re sorry.”

Itaru wonders when they’ll be back to how they were before all of this. If they will ever be. If Itaru broke something irreparably. He almost did that with his body, but his body will heal. His troupemates seem to understand. That might be what that thing called love is, the reason he felt so safe at MANKAI Company. That even if he fucked things up this much, there’s a chance to fix them.

He wants to apologize again. But what he says instead is, “Thank you for coming and staying with me today.”

Chikage cracks a rare smile, so sincere it’s hard to look at. “It’s the only place I want to be right now.” 

* * *

Over the next week and a half that Itaru spends in the hospital, he’s visited by nearly all of MANKAI Company. It’s clear that not everyone knows the full story, which Itaru is fully aware is to Chikage’s credit. Some of the kids seem to not even know what illness landed Itaru there, or at least, he overhears Tenma asking Kazunari how to spell _appendicitis_ , and Kumon seems surprised Itaru can walk to the bathroom on his own. In fact, outside of Spring Troupe, Banri seems to be the only person who knows more than the basics. Itaru is never told exactly how the news of his hospitalization was disseminated at the dorms, so he doesn’t know whether Chikage determined Banri had best friend privileges and told him more, or if Banri demanded the information out of Chikage himself. 

Whatever the case, Banri visits Itaru so often that Sakyo scolds him for neglecting his schoolwork; Banri retaliates by doing his schoolwork in Itaru’s hospital room, which goes remarkably well despite Banri getting distracted every few minutes by the sound of Itaru gaming or by the hospital machines beeping. Itaru is grateful to have Banri there; he’s grateful for all of his visitors, but gaming with Banri feels the closest to normal that he’s felt in weeks.

Presents from his visitors pile up, some of which Itaru appreciates more than others; he devours the sweets Juza and Azuma bring him within the evening, but the healing poem Homare taped to one of his machines goes unread by Itaru and most of his other visitors. It’s the thought that counts, he decides, and he thinks he feels better the next day, even if it’s only a placebo.

On the last day before Itaru is discharged, Citron and Chikage come to visit. Citron seems in a very good mood, humming the theme to an anime he made Itaru watch last year as he helps Itaru pack up his stuff. Chikage lingers at the door, and then goes to find a doctor to double check something, leaving Itaru alone with Citron.

The last thing to pack up is one of Itaru’s consoles, sitting and charging on the floor by one of the outlets. Itaru had asked Izumi to bring a few of his games a few days after his surgery, after doing a lot of looking at random Kniroun retweets and determining that he would not suddenly die if he did so. Even so, he’s played very little Kniroun while he’s been here. Part of that is due to the recent release of another game he was excited for; it’s also due to his body needing to rest and not stare at screens for long periods of time, despite Itaru’s normal lifestyle requiring that both at work and at home. But as Citron unplugs the console, Itaru stops him and reaches for it. “Gimme.”

He closes out of the game he was playing, and opens up Kniroun VII. Citron perches at the edge of the bed, looking over Itaru’s shoulder as Itaru thumbs through the title and selects one of his save files. As the opening theme plays quietly from the console speakers, Itaru takes a slow, painful breath in.

“Still breathing?” Citron asks.

“All the scans since surgery have confirmed no flowers in there,” Itaru mumbles. “All clear.” 

“Are you worried they’ll come back?”

“The surgery’s supposed to prevent all that.” Itaru pauses, rubbing absently at his chest in the way the doctors told him he shouldn’t. “I guess I just keep needing to confirm it for myself.”

“You seem better than you have in weeks,” Citron tells him. “I missed my Kniroun comrade, you know.”

“Hmm.” Itaru wants to lean into Citron, bump their shoulders together, but Citron does it before Itaru can move, mushing his warm side against Itaru’s. Itaru smiles. “Missed you too.”

“There was another trailer for X,” Citron says, as if he doesn’t follow Itaru’s Twitter where he’s been retweeting things about it. “Did you see?”

“Of course I saw.” Itaru has been doing his best to catch up on the Kniroun news he’s missed over the past weeks. The weirdest part was a few days ago, when he watched the rest of that livestream that Tonooka was in. Seeing Tonooka’s face, watching him talk about Kniroun, used to make Itaru’s chest fill with flowers; even before then, it would have made him so jealous and angry he wouldn’t be able to breathe normally. Now, it’s a slight annoyance, like a fly buzzing on the other side of the room. A fraction of the feeling he used to have. There’s room for other feelings to occupy that space instead, anticipation for Kniroun X, curiosity, excitement. Even if Tonooka is at the company still, even if Itaru is still morally opposed to his repugnant face and nasty attitude, Tonooka is technically only doing promo work, so the game itself will be untouched by him. And Itaru himself cannot be hurt by Tonooka again, which he supposes is the really important part.

“Are you going to play video games or finish packing,” Chikage deadpans from the doorway.

“Sorry, sorry,” Citron sings, hopping up from the bed. “It’s not like we have to be back at the dorms by exactly any certain time, you know~”

“What’s with that,” Itaru says, suddenly remembering all the times he’s helped Spring Troupe clumsily hide a surprise party after Sakuya let something slip. 

Citron just winks at him and starts winding up the cord for the console still in Itaru’s hands. 

“The less time you have to spend atrophying in here, the better,” Chikage says, smooth as always. 

“Would you rather I atrophy at home, in your room?”

“Are you asking honestly? Because if you were at the dorm, at least I wouldn’t have to commute across the city to help you use the bathroom.”

“Ouch, senpai.”

“When Itaru is back at the dorm, we can all help him use the bathroom,” Citron offers.

“I can use the bathroom by myself,” Itaru reminds him. This is technically true; the issue is more with getting winded on the way to and from the bathroom. “I might end up taking over the couch, though.”

Chikage snorts. “That’ll be so different from your usual.”

Itaru rolls his eyes, and responds by turning off his console and sticking it into his bag. With that, and the rolled-up power cord Citron adds a moment later, Itaru should be all packed; he scans the floor and various surfaces for any stray items, but really, he thinks he should be good. He hasn’t spread out that far from the bed anyway. 

The doctor pops her head in, sees Itaru’s bags packed, and steps in fully, a smile on her face. Itaru’s grown fond of her during this stay, her polite and positive bedside manner; he’s grateful for her help throughout this. Really, he has so many people that he’s grateful for. 

“All packed?” the doctor asks. 

Itaru, Citron, and Chikage all nod.

“Great. I have some discharge paperwork for you, and some prescriptions for you to fill downstairs for the medications we went over yesterday.” She hands Itaru one of her trusty clipboards and a pen monogrammed with the hospital name. “How’s your pain today?”

It’s been probably five hours since Itaru’s most recent dose of meds. He shrugs one shoulder. “All right.”

“Well, be sure to take the medications as directed.” The doctor taps the side of the clipboard. “And don’t hesitate to call if anything feels off.”

“I will. Thank you.”

Itaru goes through the paperwork, feeling about as detached as he can from the medical language describing his condition. The medications include what he recognizes as a pretty strong painkiller, as well as some meds to help him breathe easier, both of which he’s sure he’ll appreciate. He’s not sure when he’ll be able to return to work fully, but now that he thinks about gradually returning to normalcy, he burns for it. To be able to lay in his own bed, sit at his own computer desk, grab snacks from the dorm kitchen and chat with everyone there. Even return to work, the slow monotony of daytime and the busy delight of evenings filled with games and theatre. The life he was so happy with, that sustained him to this point.

He really is very lucky. Except he isn’t, because it got so bad for so long. But he is, because now he’s here, and he’s going to be okay. And all the pain and anger and jealousy is something he remembers but doesn’t have to feel anymore. If he could go back and tell the Itaru of the past that he didn’t need to suffer for so long, he’d like to. But Itaru is starting to realize that he did the best he could with what he had. He survived until this point. 

“I’ll carry your bags, Itaru,” Citron offers, his arms already full with one bag. Chikage reaches around him and grabs the other, holding it out of reach when Citron pouts, no hands free to reach for it. “Not fair! I want to help!”

“You’re already helping.”

Itaru gets up from the bed. He’s been detached from the wires and tubes for a day or two now, but it still feels weird to be able to walk freely. They’ll have to take the elevator; there’s no way he can make it down the stairs for now. “Thanks for carrying my stuff. You’d better not drop it on the floor.”

“What’s that? I didn’t hear you,” Chikage says.

“If you break my games, I’ll be so much more annoying in our room, I swear.”

Grinning, Chikage hefts Itaru’s bag into one hand and holds the door open for him. It’s been a while since Itaru stepped out of this room. Behind him, Citron lifts Itaru’s other bag, and Itaru gives his hospital room one more once-over. 

Then he steps past Chikage out into the hallway, ready to head home. 

**Author's Note:**

> i used [this guide](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15768186) to apply a skin to resize the art to fit browser/mobile!


End file.
